“Thank God for that,” I said under my breath.
“Oh, there was plenty of gossip.” Beth lowered her voice. “People wondered if Nina found out Spencer had been sneaking around with a Mixed, because nine months later, Teresa gave birth to Dane.”
“Where do you think he’s been all this time?” Rhys asked as he stared down at our father’s plaque.
Beth placed her hand on my brother’s shoulder. “Maybe he’s been with Aiyana in New Spain . . . waiting for Nina.”
When Beth took her hand away, my brother glanced at his shoulder, the tiniest smile lighting his face. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that Thomas never made it out of the corn. What then? Who would Alonso’s vessel be?”
“Oh, I love games.” Beth rubbed her palms together. “I suppose since Ash stood in for your mother at the wreathing ceremony, the answer would be Brennon.”
“And he’d just willingly do that?” I asked as I moved closer, being careful not to step on any headstones.
“It’s tradition,” Beth chirped. “An honor.” A breeze moved through the trees and Beth turned to face it, closing her eyes as it moved her fine hair around her face.
Leaning over, I traced my mother’s name on the plaque. “Why does the Larkin girl get to choose Alonso’s vessel?”
“The female holds all the power in the Larkin bloodline, but true love between Katia’s chosen vessel and the Mendoza boy would create the strongest bond.”
I then traced my father’s name. I thought if the choice had been mine—if the ceremony were real—I would’ve chosen Dane. I reached up to touch the black silk ribbon in my hair. “Why can’t a Larkin be with a Mixed?”
“They say Katia and Coronado’s hatred for each other runs in the blood. And just in case we forget, the Mixed are marked when they come of age.” She showed us the brand on her inner arm, a C identical to the one Henry had. C for Coronado.
I stood and studied her mark. “Dane’s brand looks different—almost like wings or something. Why?”
“Spencer branded him at birth instead of waiting for him to come of age. As he grew, the brand became distorted.”
“How could someone brand a newborn? That’s barbaric.”
Beth shrugged, but I could tell it bothered her by the way she traced her own brand with her thumb. “The only Mixed with Larkin blood is Henry. And when he got caught sneaking around with his half cousin Anna Larkin, there was a lot of debate about whether to let him live or not, but the community finally compromised.”
“What kind of compromise?” I asked, looking up at her sharply.
“Spencer took care of it so his line couldn’t continue.”
“What do you mean, took care of it?” Rhys asked. Then his eyes widened. “You don’t mean they castrated him. As in snip, snip?”
“More like chop, chop,” Beth said with that odd lilt.
I kept picturing Henry’s anguished expression, the way he shifted his weight when he talked about the punishment Dane would face if the two of us were caught together.
“The ritual,” I said as I took in the sea of plaques before me. “Why would anyone just hand over their sons and daughters like that?”
“It’s an honor,” Beth replied.
“You keep saying that.” My eyes locked on hers. “But what if Coronado murdered them, along with all the other Larkins who disappeared?”
She looked around cautiously, like the dead might be listening in. “When Katia becomes one with her vessel, when Alonso’s returned to her, she’s going to make everyone immortal.” She forced a smile. “We’re all going to live forever.”
“Do you honestly believe that?” Rhys asked.
“There will be a path to lead us from darkness,” she whispered, staring out over the corn.
22
MOUTHFUL OF DIAMONDS
WHEN WE REACHED the fields, Beth skipped ahead to greet people, giving hugs whether they wanted them or not.
“Good morning,” a pregnant woman in a long dress and a sunbonnet said as she passed.
“Morning,” I called after her a little too late.
Rhys lifted his brows.
“What? We need to try and fit in.”
People walked by carrying wooden casks of homemade ice cream. A couple of kids whipped past us, running down the hill, trailing kites behind them—not the cheap Mylar kind with pictures of Spider-Man—real kites with long ribboned tails that spiraled in the breeze.
“It looks like a Norman Rockwell painting down there,” I said.
“Oh, totally.” Rhys crossed his arms. “Other than the fact it’s a creepy cult that worships our five-hundred-year-old ancestor who’s supposedly hell-bent on wearing Mom’s body like a skin suit, it’s exactly like a Norman Rockwell painting.”